Literotica Lost Boy

⚡ ALL INFORMATION CLICK HERE 👈🏻👈🏻👈🏻

Literotica Lost Boy
I Lost My Virginity to a Straight Boy
There’s a way to burst through the shame gay men are made to feel about homosexuality.
Related Stories for GQ LGBTQ Entertainment
How Collecting Sneakers Helped Me Come to Terms With Who I Really Am
From Fire Island to a New Netflix Special, Joel Kim Booster Knows Success “Will Never Feel As Good As It Does Now”
Jerrod Carmichael's 12-Step Truth Program
Queer as Folk Is Still Breaking New Ground for Sex Scenes
Since 1957, GQ has inspired men to look sharper and live smarter with its unparalleled coverage of style, culture, and beyond. From award-winning writing and photography to binge-ready videos to electric live events, GQ meets millions of modern men where they live, creating the moments that create conversations.
To revisit this article, visit My Profile, then View saved stories .
To revisit this article, select My Account, then View saved stories
I was 19 when I first had full-on sex with another man. I was at college, living in dorms, and the experience—aside from the usual horrifying awkwardness and somewhat spontaneity of the occasion—was completely and utterly unremarkable aside from one thing: the guy I slept with identified as straight.
The whole thing went down near the end of my freshman year at a party, at which people from the whole dorm floor were drunk and celebrating, carelessly streaming in and out of each other’s rooms, following the various different pop songs until one room took their fancy. I can remember, although I'd had some drinks, sitting alone in my friend’s room on a single bed, the mattress overly springy and with a coarse plastic coating, attempting to stream a song over our dorm’s spotty Internet connection.
It was late (or early, depending on your outlook on the world) when I was joined by the boy who was living in the room next to mine, way back on the other side of the building. He was clearly intoxicated, but it was a party after all and who was I, quite drunk myself, to judge. The minutiae of exactly how things developed from us being together in that room to us having slightly unsuccessful sex in a bathroom in a different corridor have since escaped me. All I know is that one moment we were talking and the next minute, well... we weren’t. I didn’t tell him that I’d never had sex with someone before; instead, saturated with vodka and inflated by nerves, I was swept up in the motions.
Before that night, I had hardly been a nun. When I was a teenager, I was precocious and restless. As the only out young gay kid at my school, I took the advancement of my sexual experiences into my own hands and I did what we all do: I bought a fake ID and hit the gay clubs. Out on the scene I had thrilling and, now looking back, precarious hook ups with guys, going far but never all the way. I know now as LGBTQ people we can define exactly what constitutes sex for ourselves, but when you’re young and your only sex education comes in the shape of illegally downloaded Sean Cody videos, penetration seems like the end all be all.
Still, as I grew into my late-teens, venues started to crack down harder on underage drinking, and it soon became increasingly difficult to go and hook up with guys much older than myself. I felt, in my increasingly anxious and deflated state, that I was being left behind. My first year at college, apart from being grueling mentally, was hardly a sexual smorgasbord of one-night-stands and hook-ups. Instead, I reverted to my teenage years, pining after straight boys who I knew I had no chance in hell with... until that night.
I’d love to say that I felt empowered by fucking my first guy, but the whole experience left a lot to be desired. While I knew it wouldn’t be like a gay college erotica I’d read on Nifty.org (gay canon, really), I rather naively wasn’t expecting the fall out. The boy told his then-girlfriend (who I knew about), saying I had come on to him but that nothing had really happened. Although one thing I can vividly remember was that it was quite literally the other way around, the visceral shock of being somewhat shoved back in the closet and denied the celebratory expungement of my virginity was palpable.
For the next year, we’d hook-up on and off, usually at 3 a.m. after we’d been out partying. We’d meet surreptitiously in dark and make out in the cold British weather on a park bench before venturing back to his place to have sex. And while at the beginning I felt like I had the upper hand in the situation—I was the one who was out and comfortable in my sexuality, right?—after each time we met became more secretive and more dirty, I began to feel secretive, dirty, and most of all shameful . I’m not sure whether I really fell for the guy or not, but I do know that at the end of it he was just using me to get off.
I never learned whether the boy I lost my virginity to was struggling with his sexuality. I think, when I look back now and occasionally find myself tumbling through his Facebook page, that he wasn’t. I believe it was just sex, or at least that’s what I have tell myself now to avoid slipping into a memory induced k-hole. I realize I fell into that old gay adage of placing my feelings on a person who, for whatever reason, was never going to invest them back in me. Worst of all, though, the shame attached to the memories of those first times marred how I would approach sex for years.
It was listening to Years & Years’ new song “Sanctify,” and seeing the band’s out gay singer Olly Alexander talk about how the song was inspired his sexual trysts with straight men, that I realized that these feelings are way more common than people let on. Sure, I know all about gay guys having sex with straight guys, but it felt reassuring to see him describe the “saint and sinner role” he embodied during those experiences, and to hear the uncertainty and melancholy weaved into the song.
More than anything though, was the repeated lyrical mantra of “I won’t be ashamed.” Because as queer people, we’re buried in lifetime’s worth of shame so vivid and searing that oftentimes it’s crippling. Bursting through that shame is our badge of honor, our beautifully united experience. And maybe, like the song says, that does sanctify our sex lives and makes us just a little bit holy.
© 2022 Condé Nast. All rights reserved. Use of this site constitutes acceptance of our User Agreement and Privacy Policy and Cookie Statement and Your California Privacy Rights. GQ may earn a portion of sales from products that are purchased through our site as part of our Affiliate Partnerships with retailers. The material on this site may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, cached or otherwise used, except with the prior written permission of Condé Nast. Ad Choices



One more step
Please complete the security check to access bigclosetr.us


Please stand by, while we are checking your browser...
Please enable Cookies and reload the page.
Completing the CAPTCHA proves you are a human and gives you temporary access to the web property.
If you are on a personal connection, like at home, you can run an anti-virus scan on your device to make sure it is not infected with malware.
If you are at an office or shared network, you can ask the network administrator to run a scan across the network looking for misconfigured or infected devices.
Another way to prevent getting this page in the future is to use Privacy Pass. Check out the browser extension in the Firefox Add-ons Store .

Cloudflare Ray ID: 72833dd89a9f71aa
•

Your IP:
Click to reveal
46.8.222.41
•

Performance & security by Cloudflare



HANGIN ABOUT I’m a Dollar Tree fan – how to use their laundry bags for a DIY storage hack
GRAB BAG I bought a Coach bag for $7 at a thrift store – I’m blown away by what was inside
COMPRESSED I tried Khloe Kardashian’s compression swimsuit - it made my boobs look bigger
KEEP IT CLASSY I'm an etiquette coach - 8 restaurant habits making you look unsophisticated
STEVE* was 16 when he lost his virginity to a friend’s mum, twenty years his senior. 
At the time he felt lucky and it was only when discussing it with a psychologist over thirty years later that he realised the effect it had had on his life.
Here he shares his story with Kidspot.com.au …
It was about two o'clock in the morning and I was just drifting off to sleep in a sleeping bag in the lounge room, surrounded by party remnants, when Jane* padded silently into the room, unzipped my sleeping bag and got in beside me. 
I was 16, and although it wasn’t the first time I’d been drunk, it was still a relatively new occurrence.
Maybe it was the drink, but I really wasn’t that shocked when she started kissing me passionately: despite my young age, I’d always had an intuitive feeling that perhaps she was attracted to me. 
I thought I was mature for my age, and Jane was a single mum; petite, attractive and young for 36. She always paid me a lot of attention.
When I went round to hang with my mate, she would often offer to give me a lift home afterwards and I could feel some sort of tension as we laughed and talked in the car.
The party had actually been my mate’s 16th birthday and the underage drink had flowed freely. 
I’d turned 16 myself about three months earlier. I still wouldn’t be old enough to legally have a drink for another two years, but that night I lost my virginity to a much older partner with the law’s blessing. Very willingly on my part, I might add.
And it was great. Not like the awkward fumbling I’d had with girls my age up until then, it was how I imagined sex could be from watching films, and sneaking a look at my older brother’s porn magazines. We did ‘everything’, based on my scant knowledge of what ‘everything’ was.
And it didn’t feel to me like just sex, it felt like I was making love. Like I was truly in love with this woman and she was in love with me. A 36-year-old woman and a 16-year-old boy.
The next morning when I woke up with a hangover, I was alone in my sleeping bag. 
We all gathered for breakfast and Jane treated me as she always did - friendly, but very much as a friend of her son. Perhaps slightly more offhand and less friendly than normal. 
I knew immediately that I’d never be able to tell anyone - I had to keep this a secret and play my part in keeping the normalcy.
But we had sex again. Quite a few times, in fact. And always, obviously, in secret. 
Looking back, I don’t think Jane got off on the secrecy side of things, I think she was genuinely scared of getting caught. But I liked it. It felt like I was getting away with something I shouldn’t be doing.
I then spent most of my adult life looking back on it fondly, as a harmless, sexual adventure - a rite of passage
And I also realised over time, that I liked the almost transactional nature of the sex we were having. 
There was no need for lavishing attention on Jane or treating her in a special way - and in fact it would have been totally unwanted, as we kept up the pretence. 
And so unlike other girlfriends I’d had who wanted my time and attention, Jane just wanted to have great sex with me, and then I’d leave to hang out with my mates and pretend it had never happened - with her blessing.
It might sound perfect to some men; and to a 16-year-old kid, doing his HSC (Australian equivalent of GCSEs) and learning to drive, it was certainly appealing to have this deep dark secret - albeit one that I was burning to share with mates.
Then after about six months, Jane started seeing someone, as she of course had every right to do as a lonely single mother. And I was devastated. 
I of course thought I was in love with her, and couldn’t understand why our arrangement couldn’t continue for, well, forever.
We never had a deep and meaningful chat about the situation, Jane almost immediately detached herself from any contact - no more lifts home, no more secret assignations.
I had to suffer in silence and for the most part I did, apart from getting very hideously drunk at another house party (still underage) and abusing her new boyfriend disgustingly. He was actually a really nice bloke in retrospect, and utterly confused by the episode.
After a couple of years of initial resentment, I then spent most of my adult life looking back on it fondly, as a harmless, sexual adventure - a rite of passage.
But then one day in a therapy session, I related the story to my psychologist. We’d been working together for a year on my anxiety, depression, substance abuse and lack of self-worth. 
It had never come up before, and in fairness, there was plenty of childhood family trauma and disfunction to get through first.
I remember her saying to me, “How would you have felt if that was your 16-year-old son and a 36-year-old woman?” 
And as I had a son who was 16 at the time - as she well knew - it hit me right between the eyes just how inappropriate that would be. My son was just a boy. Yes, he was becoming a young man very rapidly, but he was still very much a boy in emotional terms. In formative terms.
And I realised that I had been, too.
Now aged 46, divorced, and with a string of bad relationships and addiction behind me, I understood how life worked, in a way I was incapable of 30 years earlier.
I also saw that my relationship to sex over the years had been very compartmentalised. A commodity that I craved. Not an extension of a relationship to be developed. I saw the act of sex as meaning love. I didn’t think sex needed real intimacy and connection, just a place and a willing partner.
I also saw sex as a guilty pleasure rather than a natural, expression of love. Something naughty and clandestine to get away with when nobody was looking. And I often saw relationships as just a vehicle for sex. Something to fit around the rest of my life.
Gradually I’ve spent time unlearning some of these behaviours and it’s been difficult - many feel hard-wired. Not all of them are linked to my early sex life, but some are.
I still don’t blame Jane for what happened between us. I have issues that were there before we had our ‘fling’, and that are more down to my family nature and nurture. But while I grew up thinking I’d been lucky to have that as my first sexual experiences, now I’m not so sure.
This story was originally published on Kidspot.com.au and has been republished here with permission.
I bought a Coach bag for $7 at a thrift store – I’m blown away by what was inside
I tried Khloe Kardashian’s compression swimsuit - it made my boobs look bigger
I'm an etiquette coach - 8 restaurant habits making you look unsophisticated
I have natural big boobs and these are my go-to styles of bikini
© 2020 THE SUN, US, INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED | TERMS OF USE | PRIVACY | YOUR AD CHOICES | SITEMAP


DDoS protection by Cloudflare

Ray ID: 72833ebc9aa71687

Please enable Cookies and reload the page.
This process is automatic. Your browser will redirect to your requested content shortly.

Demon Hentai
Nifty Org Authors
Conwic Stories